Wednesday, June 4, 2014


Turtle hangs his ancient head low
Parts with memories
He can no longer carry beneath his shell
Now as dusty as the years which have passed
Aging him
Bowing him
Confining him,
Though I believe personally,
To stare upon the road.

His head rises
Catching glimpses of the now people;
He turns facing outwardly away to watch the cityscape pass
And I am left to wonder his manicure
And the story of his somehow
Intentional unkemptness.

Turtle I've named him,
The arch of his spine
Life I figure
Hard and purposeful
This is the consequence biological and otherwise.
Is that me there beneath his blackened nails
At the ends of his silvering hair?
He moves forward
Aware of the stops
Recognizing yet bowed.
I wonder his God...

Is this me?
Is this me?

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